


Chance Encounters

by AnnaBolena



Series: These Years Spent in Paris [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1826-1828, Canon Era, Courfeyrac loves the ladies and the ladies love him, Didn't think so., Is it just the ladies tho?, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Canon, Triumvirate origin story + some R because I love him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 20:09:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16817599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: “Work beckons me, though you are welcome to call on me for conversation some other time. Good day.”He is already once more on his way when he hears The Gentleman call after him: “If I but knew your name or even address, Monsieur, I certainly would.”But Combeferre is late, so he neglects to introduce himself in favor of hoping fate shall grant them another meeting.a.k.a. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, 1826-1828, with some Enjoltaire as always





	Chance Encounters

**Author's Note:**

> So the plan, what I originally wanted to do, was write a Courferre Beginning-End Story, and then it took me over 17k for them to get together, because, like the author whose characters inspired this fic, I am prone to going off-tangent.  
> All the better, since this gives me the opportunity to create a part II sometime in the future.

**Paris, October 1826**

Combeferre encounters him on his very first day in Paris, as he tries to find his way to the lodgings he procured via letters some weeks in the past. He has only just parted with the carriage that brought him here, has only just managed to retrieve his belongings, and already, the whole of the city seems impossibly overwhelming. Then he sees him. That is to say – first, he steps out of the way of a wayward, rapidly approaching carriage, this one larger and decidedly more opulent, second, Combeferre collides with him violently, then thirdly finds himself gripping delectably soft coat fabric to cushion their fall, and then, finally when he looks up, he finds himself staring into the grandest brown eyes he has ever seen. It is winter in Paris, his breath is visible in the stale, used, impure air, and yet he feels warm. The pain in his back caused by the grime and cobblestone they landed on is hardly noticeable, too raptly is he staring at this man cushioned on his chest. He is fairly certain his coat is eagerly soaking up whatever liquid covers the streets of Paris, only grateful that it is partially frozen already and therefore the damage might be somewhat contained.

“Pardon me,” Combeferre says, still lacking sufficient breath but well on the road to a full recovery, he dares predict, “That carriage came out of nowhere, I meant only to get out of the way.”

It is to be expected in Paris, he has heard. His landlady had written him of the extensive stench that seems to fill the city, the general clatter, seldom quiet, the lawless streets. Truthfully it is hardly the welcome he expected, but he cannot bring himself to mind it terribly. 

Never in his life has he seen so many people, all at once. His parents took him to Paris once, when he was but a small boy, and back then, hiding behind his mother's skirts, it had not seemed nearly so daunting. Combeferre remembers little of that visit, never repeated while his mother lived, but he remembers the looks they drew, his parents, for the unconventional match they made. It had been one of his greatest worries, when he had received permission to study in this imposing city - that he should be looked upon as his mother once had, and find himself of weaker spirit than her, crumbling beneath their judging gazes. 

(Ah, he thinks, to have to be convinced to leave for the city by one's own sister, how unusual - most young men would chafe if too long remaining under the watchful eyes of the father, but not him.)

The man on top of him regards him curiously as well, though not quite in the manner Combeferre had feared. 

“I bear a part of the burden for strolling the streets in distraction and not watching my step,” the man on top of him says, smiling now. His eyes crinkle, no longer round in shock, and his features are wonderfully genuine. His skin is free of impurities and his lips are red as cherries in summertime – he has an almost coquettish charm to him that Combeferre finds more enticing than proper, even upon so little opportunity yet to behold him.

“Might you get up, if the fall has not broken anything?” He says therefore, feeling a little awkward after a few seconds have passed and the man does not move to right himself. 

Were they in a different city, a smaller one, he is sure they would have caused a commotion, lying in the street as they are. As it is Paris, they merely draw passing looks, a few carefully raised eyebrows, quickly averted. There is no time in Paris to behold such a spectacle, only something truly grand could capture the people's attention for longer than the blink of an eye. 

“Gladly, if you would only let go of me, Monsieur,” his eyes narrow, full of mirth and vivacity.

“Right,” Combeferre clears his throat and removes the hands he had firmly embedded on the gentleman’s coat. Both of them get up, and Combeferre offers him the hat that must have been dislodged in the process. It is an atrocity of a top hat, made all the worse by the mud – certainly Combeferre hopes it is mud they fell into, but the stench does not leave him optimistic – now defacing it.

For a second they stare at each other, unsure what to say. Then Combeferre clasps his hands together, rubbing them for lack of better diversion and to generate heat. It should please him only too well to behold this man much longer, but he fears he has already made himself too obvious – what distinguishes him from his peers, what gives him cause for shame too often, he fears it is only too visible in his eyes at this moment. “Well, I really must be going. Good day to you, Monsieur.”

“And to you,” the man tips his hat, straightens his coat – a bright, canary yellow, left unharmed by the fall at the cost of Combeferre’s blue coat– and they part ways. Perhaps Combeferre watches him weave through the crowds a while longer, trying to commit to and erase from his mind the memory of large brown eyes.

+

His landlady is an affable sort, who lives with her sister and their respective broods, both widowed in the invasion of Spain, three years past now, and left with altogether 8 children to care for. Casualties among the Hundred Thousand Sons of Saint-Louis, gone to die for the right of yet another tyrant to rule their Spaniard brothers. He does not say such a thing, but he does extend his sympathies once more, after he had already elected to do so in his letters. 

“The extra income is appreciated, I’m sure you know we wouldn’t usually be agreeable to housing a bachelor, but you seemed a genuine fellow, and we are nearing destitution in our troubles,” Madame Clochard tells him, clasping her hands worriedly.

Her sister, a Madame Michelet, winks at him and adds: “Pray do not sully our good name by inviting any strange ladies up into your quarters.” She is the younger of the two, only about 23 by his estimation, and nary would proclaim her a mourning widow. Madame Michelet is vivacious and content to leave the care of her three little ones to her more matronly sister while she works as a seamstress and seeks to garner all manner of attention from various gentlemen as they pass her by. Combeferre believes he assuages the manner of her spirit within a week. 

He supposes she is rather pleasing to the eye, were he the type to be enflamed by a pretty woman. Her lips are full, her cheeks rosy, her dark hair tumbles down her back when she unpins it in the evening, every bit of her speaks yet of youthful exuberance, while the few years she has on him speak of delicious experience, should he be interested.

As it is, he is not.

“You need not worry, Ma’am,” he tells Madame Toussaint earnestly, bowing shortly, “I had not intended to shame you in the face of your hospitality.”

+

The study of medicine grips him as the pursuit of knowledge always does, he delights in learning. Where his compatriots groan and complain at the courseload, it is steadying for him - he feels as though it gives him purpose. 

It does not take long before his interests outgrow the course work, and he is surprised by how willing his professor is to answer further questions. 

"If there is a way to erase the obstacle of that horrible by-name Corona Mortis, Monsieur Combeferre, modern surgeons have not yet found it. I'm sure you well know how precarious such operations are, it is a wonder any of them survive it..."

"Yes, but certainly, if one could stop the bleeding-"

"One would still have possible infections to contend with. What you are suggesting would require a broader cut. To suture live arteries? I'm quite sure it has never been done, god only knows if it should ever become possible!"

"Is there no way to practice, then, to see if it might work? I had heard that you are in the habit of dissecting condemned criminals after the sentence has been carried out, should they not serve well for that purpose?"

"If your purpose were to see if your needlework is fine enough for an artery to be patched - certainly. It is another matter entirely to stitch up a body that still pumps blood, you see? There is the matter of time, as you have very little of it if your patient ought not lose too much of his blood, and the matter of disorientation as the vessel moves in time to the heart's signal."

Combeferre and his Professor remain locked in silence for a while, until the older man pushes the glasses that have made their way further down his nose during conversation back against his eyes. 

"Perhaps you would like a demonstration of the foil that is the Corona Mortis? I am sure to receive a patient with a hernia soon, they are a common malady in this day and age. If it is of such interest to you, I might have a Gamin come and fetch you."

+

He spends plenty of evenings deep in conversation with Madame Clochard, when he has no studying to be done, who has more interests than initially suspected, all pushed aside in favor of raising children that need care and guidance. She soaks up what he tells her eagerly, inquisitive beyond belief and grateful when he gives her full reign of his steadily growing library, sure to hide the more incriminating, controversial volumes well. Many of them are easily found in Paris, and it is addictive, in a manner, to seek them out. 

There is little that Combeferre values more than knowledge, and, though he yet holds reservations in regards to Paris, there is no city in France to supply him with more ways of obtaining knowledge. Books and pamphlets on any variety of subject are easily found, if the connections and the price one offers is right. As Combeferre keeps a relatively vice-free lifestyle, never truly straying past a singular cup of wine and not once seeking out company for the night, the allowance his father sets aside for him stretches enough to easily allow plenty of new volumes on his shelves per month. 

“How marvelous,” Madame Clochard sighs one night, resting her chin in her hands and smiling as Combeferre recounts the article he read on the brilliant Nicéphore Niépce that morning. “…To think humanity now capable of accurately capturing a moment at will. Is there any height we cannot rise to?”

“As of yet the images are supposedly rather vague and grainy, and take considerable time to capture, though I do not doubt he intends to fix it to the best of his ability.”

“I should like that, I think,” she tells him, smiling at the table fondly, “To capture a moment for posterity. It all seems so fleeting these days, Monsieur Combeferre, does it not? Was it not only recently that I was but a flower of a young girl, before life passed me by and I found myself withered?”

“Madame, if you would permit me the comment, you are as far from the end of your bloom as ever,” Combeferre insists, genuine. Madame Clochard is not yet nearing thirty. No man at that age should be called old by his peers – there are students that have passed their 30th year in his courses. She smiles at him, gently. “You are kind to say so, Monsieur, though the world does not agree with you.”

+

**Paris, December 1826**

The next time Combeferre spots the boy – man, more accurately, he does look to be of gentlemanly age – he feels more nervous than he ought to. It is not due to the unexpected presence of the canary yellow coat and its brown-eyed owner, but because he feels generally uncomfortable flaunting the law so brazenly, even for grounds he deems justified and worthy. The man is sitting alone in a corner of the establishment, though he does not seem in want of company. His eyes are tracking the girl serving drinks at the other end of the bar, and between his fingers he is twirling a dip pen, from the looks of it an expensive one, exquisitely carved out of strong material. The red lips Combeferre had been so caught on previously are pulled in a musing grin that belies the assured confidence in his eyes.

Strikingly, Combeferre is reminded of a panther on the prowl. It is almost elegant, the way this man pursues a woman with his eyes, saying not a word to her but surely catching her attention, if the way her eyes repeatedly flick to him is any indication. There is a blush on her cheeks and a shy smile that she fights little to hide. 

This establishment is not one he would seek to frequent, he knows well of the reputation it bears as a place to foment dissent, a libertarian stronghold, if Madame Clochard is to be believed. (If Madame Michelet is to be believed, then it is a house of good fun and palatable food, unknown delights that await whomever willing to partake. In truth Combeferre is more inclined to believe her older sister, if only because he is not the sort to wish to indulge in any of the pleasures on offer.)

Only the meeting was arranged for this place, no discussion to be brokered, and as he keeps an eye out for the indicative red handkerchief, he inevitably draws attention to himself. 

(It is his height, some would claim. Others would put his skin tone down as the reason, not quite so dark as to cause serious concerns, but dark enough to warrant a second look. His mother, were she alive, would certainly be affronted if word of such stares ever reached her delicate ears. Not because it is true that he was not born of an entirely orthodox union, but because she would be affronted that he should be judged on such superficial grounds. “You are so clever, my boy,” she would tell him often, “And you have the capacity for so much goodness. Do not let those with hearts full of hate dilute the love you carry in yours.”)

“Monsieur,” the man calls out to him, nodding fervently when Combeferre turns to check if perhaps someone else is the addressed. “Will you not sit and have a drink to the joys of not being run over by careless carriages?”

Very well, he thinks, ignoring the twist in his stomach. 

Combeferre takes a seat across from the young man – and he is young, without a doubt, though clearly a man of similar age to him, perhaps a year or two younger, at most– and accepts the glass of wine he pushes towards him with a tight smile. He feels uncomfortable as it is, in such an establishment, in a yet unfamiliar city. The man’s clever brown eyes do little to make him feel at ease, though he feels inordinately glad to have been remembered.

“What brings you here, Monsieur?” The man asks, sporting a cream colored waistcoat over a blue shirt today, his canary coat on the seat behind him. It is a strange juxtaposition of colors – loud, certainly, as a descriptive. Much bolder than what Combeferre choses as his habit – various shades of blue or cream, red if he so dares, occasionally. He owns a black waistcoat in addition to that, and one or two garments in grey. The gentleman’s hat sits on the table next to him, mercifully no longer tarred by mud but still unfailingly hideous, in Combeferre’s humble opinion.

“Meeting a friend,” Combeferre keeps his answer as vague as good manners allow.

Something sparks in his conversational partner’s eyes at the notion. “Ah,” he smiles, “That is my objective as well, though she will take a while longer, to keep me waiting and willing, as is her preferred pastime.”

Combeferre blushes, clears his throat. “You are mistaken,” he says, “I do not come here to call on a lady in that manner, merely to acquire a book.”

He had not intended to reveal the nature of his presence so readily, but he cannot let this supposition go without being refuted.

“A book you say?” The man leans backwards in his chair. “Pray tell what book is powerful enough to make a man frequent a house of questionable repute when he would otherwise regard it with distaste?”

“Perhaps one not commonly sold in more orthodox Paris venues?” Combeferre dares, arching a brow as he has another sip. It is somewhat intoxicating; to be the sole focus of the gentleman’s eyes. He cannot say he catches him observing the girl as they converse. He wishes to hold his attention for a while longer, and so he is daring where he is usually not. His prudence is something he values highly, normally, his ability to employ logic and reason where others yield to their whims and wills. And where is that fine ability now, he wonders?

The man makes an understanding noise. “It is quite some trouble to go to, for a book. But I dare say procuring it is worth any possible repercussions?”

“That remains to be seen,” Combeferre retorts, evenly. “I have not read it yet, but I will be sure to judge its worth once I have.”

"A risky investment, then."

"So it is," Combeferre agrees, emptying his cup and searching the room again with his eyes. 

“Do you make a habit of defying authority, Monsieur?” The man asks with a smile as he refills their cups despite initial protests from Combeferre, unwilling to impose. “Oh, no, I insist. On me. It is somewhat boring to merely sit and wait when conversation presents itself as an alternative, and with a man such as yourself, of all people.”

“Well then,” Combeferre nods as the gentleman toasts to books and their possible worth.

“Am I to receive an answer to my question, Monsieur, or do you too claim denying me to be à la mode in these times?”

“Only when authority overreaches itself does it need to be defied,” Combeferre settles on his answer.

“How do you mean?”

“What authority could possibly have the right to place an interdict on knowledge, a resource that is by all accounts a free right to be obtained by whomever chooses to?”

At the very least, that is as it should be. It is not something the upper classes may hoard as they do the other riches. Knowledge, when shared, grows. To trade ideas is to expand them, manifold. To try and eradicate knowledge, to keep it from the people, is a crime in Combeferre's eyes. And yet he sees it every day on the streets, children that will grow up and count themselves lucky if they know how to spell their name, children that will never get the chance to an education, children that must learn only what they can pick up on the streets. It pains him. 

“Ah,” the man nods, thoughtfully, “God, perhaps?” The suggestion is accompanied by expectantly raised brows, though the man seems delighted by what sees in front of him. His fingers, elegant and smooth, scarcely molded by physical labor but kept active by writing – If he is any judge of it – circle the rim of his cup slowly as he throws Combeferre a look of challenge.

It seems the man is looking for a debate, and for a while Combeferre is content to indulge him. He is only too aware that such subjects are easily taken too far. There is but little tolerance these days for subversive ideas to flourish. Too keenly does their current King remember the tragedy that befell his brother. 

(Combeferre himself is conflicted when he thinks on the events of the last century. How could a revolution that brought them the Rights of Man, objectively a great progress in the struggle towards freedom, have turned so bloody? How could the very General that drafted these rights have turned around and slaughtered well over fifty innocent people? It befuddles the mind, to have to account for human fallacy in such intellectually idealistic times. If, at least, one could say that the sacrifices made to the Guillotine had at least brought about change into all of France, Combeferre supposes he might feel different. But here they are, once more beneath a King, after having been beneath an Emperor and another King. Combeferre never breathed the air of a free country and he longs for it. His lungs do not feel properly inflated, every breath is restricted by the bindings of royal decrees.) 

“Certainly,” Combeferre smiles a little more tightly, “Only it seems to me that books and pamphlets both are more tangible than a benevolent force of heaven.”

The subject of religion, of deities, is never an easy one to navigate reliably among new acquaintances; if they are that.

“I think fondly on men with interesting opinions, do tell me more,” he prompts, “Can you only believe in what you may touch? Are your hands to be the sole judge in all matters of belief? It gives them a great deal of power over your mind, Monsieur, I dearly hope them to be capable.”

Combeferre is suddenly hit with the urge to loosen his cravat, as he feels uncomfortably hot beneath the fabric. Usually he takes care not to allow any progression of dishevelment on his person to appear in public. The clothes, though not of the highest quality, are a form of armor in their immaculate state. They are a sign that, though he looks different, he belongs here, within society. He resists, folding his hands in his lap as he ponders how best to phrase his answer. He does not truly know the man opposite him, though quite dearly he would like to. There is an air to the man's spirit, something that draws him in even more than those brown eyes and the lips of red he thinks on too frequently. 

“There is neither proof for nor against the existence of such a god, and therefore I can neither believe nor dismiss the notion of him.”

“By that logic you should also accept the possibility of a great many other things,” the man grins, thankfully not spouting off about how preposterous a statement Combeferre has just made.

“Perhaps I do,” he challenges, rapping his knuckles on the table softly as he thinks. He does not quite know what to do with his hands – he cannot keep both of them on his lap indefinitely, nor can he clutch the cup for the entirety of this encounter. Instead he focuses on attempting to forego fidgeting entirely.

“Indeed? What manner of phantom do you suppose your belief includes? Ghosts?” His smile is almost feline, the way he lounges in his chair speaks of considerable confidence, and Combeferre is at a loss as to _why_ he finds that so alluring.

“Quite so,” Combeferre raises an eyebrow in challenge.

“Faeries?”

“Unquestionably within the realm of reasonable plausibility,” Combeferre counters. He feels as though the very presence of the creature across from him provides ample arguments for the case of beings more than simply human.

“And what about,” the man leans forward again as his voice drops to a low, conspiratorial hum “The inherent equality of all persons, that fickle concept? Do you consider that probable?”

“No,” Combeferre finally decides after some deliberation, and watches as the man looks surprised and a little thrown before once more appearing marvelously composed. “Because of that maxim I am _entirely_ certain, and I feel its veracity in every drop of my blood. Excuse me,” he moves to get up, “I think I see my acquaintance over there.”

In truth the fears he might have said too much already, and the stunned expression the gentleman bears is indication of truth. He had better leave.

He does not look at the man again, but the girl that had previously been serving drinks now makes her way over to his table – then abruptly he is glad that he does not look back.

Two nights later he passes judgement on the volume he purchases and deems it worthy of engaging in subterfuge over.

(He hides it from Madame Clochard when she goes to clean his room, storing it at the very bottom of his wardrobe, covered by fabrics yet to be made into clothes.)

+

It is on the last day of the year that chance, perhaps fate, leads him to cross the path of The Gentleman, as he has come to refer to him in his head, once more. He spots the canary yellow coat and its owner walking arm in arm with a tall, blond fellow donning a vermilion coat of unmatched intensity. Costly, Combeferre supposes. They are speaking fervently, The Gentleman smiling and his companion looking thoughtful and intense.

What had been the most eye-catching at a distance was the golden head of hair, but as they inevitably come closer Combeferre is certain he has never met a man so accurately depicting divine beauty. Though he is not religious at all, it still feels blasphemous to think it, and he vows to clear his head of it. The man’s eyes are like ice frosting over clear blue water and it is unsettling his stomach to see them in such an obvious display of deepest confidence. There is something almost feminine to his features, he supposes, so delicate are they. And yet, his gait, his mannerisms, his expressions are so undeniably masculine that it confounds Combeferre for a short while. 

“Ah, Monsieur,” that charming, genial voice comes dancing through the air, catching him once more off guard. “What luck that I should run into you again, and today of all days.”

“Good day to you,” Combeferre nods, touching his cap a little distractedly. It is too cold today to go without, but the tame beige of it is nothing to the continued eyesore that is The Gentleman’s top hat.

The Gentleman’s companion looks veritably annoyed to be interrupted in the midst of an undoubtedly invigorating discourse. It seems to be a regular enough happenstance and he can believe it, that The Gentleman, charming as he is, might have to stop repeatedly while promenading to converse with acquaintances, no matter how distant.

“My friend,” he claps the blond on the shoulder amiably, “This is the fellow that engaged me in such inspiring rhetoric a few weeks past, at the Café Bellaire.”

This does seem to invoke interest in the blond, who looks straight into Combeferre’s eyes and says: “In that case I should like to be afforded the opportunity to speak to you as well, citizen.”

“Indeed you should like that,” The Gentleman laughs, “Trust you to jaunt proper etiquette and leave it to me.”

He turns to Combeferre. “Monsieur, we were just on our way to a warm dinner and pleasant company, if you would care to join us?”

“I am afraid I do not have the time,” Combeferre acknowledges, looking at his fob watch. Within five minutes he will be late to the dissection his professor garnered him access to. He cannot miss it for the world, it is too great an opportunity, no matter how enticing the company of The Gentleman may be. “Work beckons me, though you are welcome to call on me for conversation some other time. Good day.”

He is already once more on his way when he hears The Gentleman call after him: “If I but knew your name or even address, Monsieur, I certainly would.”

But Combeferre is late, so he neglects to introduce himself in favor of hoping fate shall grant them another meeting. It is perhaps foolish to hope so in a city steadily climbing closer towards two million inhabitants each day, but he has run into the man three times as of now, once quite literally, and the canary yellow is certainly easy to spot. If ever fate should seek to provide him with proof of her existence, this wish granted would do well enough. 

He arrives, breathless and just in time for his professor to exhale in relief: “I had hoped you would not disappoint me, Monsieur Combeferre. Come along then.”

It is a splendid way to ring in the New Year.

+

**Paris, January 1827**

He spots The Gentleman once more when he is out procuring a birthday present he intends to give to his Madame Clochard for her upcoming birthday. It was intended to be a short trip, classes have just ended for the day and really he should be getting home, if not to study then to settle the gnawing hunger that has been developing in his stomach since mid-morning.

(This hunger, he knows, is nothing in comparison to what others have had to endure, he has never needed to fear starvation, and yet, he supposes, the pain one feels in oneself is always relatively the more acute when compared to the pain of others, which can but touch witnesses emotionally.)

There he stands, canary yellow coat freshly brushed and looking impossibly crisp, horrible top hat tucked safely beneath his arm. Combeferre admires the thick brown curls that spill from his head for a while longer as he considers simply walking up to him and initiating a conversation. The man had certainly been bold enough to do so before, why should he not return boldness in kind?

“Monsieur,” he says, politely. The Gentleman turns, curious, and Combeferre is gratified to see a smile stretch on his face upon being recognized.

“Good day to you, Monsieur. I trust all is well with you?”

“Quite well, yes,” Combeferre nods, removing his cap and clutching it within both hands behind his back, feeling less the scholar and more the untaught novice as his palms begin to sweat. “You as well, I hope?”

“When am I not so?” The Gentleman smiles, closing the book he was previously perusing in favor of fully turning towards Combeferre, once more giving him his undivided attention.

“Before I-” he says as Combeferre is starting to say: “Might I-”

“My apologies,” Combeferre shakes his head, sweeping one hand in a fashion he hopes conveys ease, “What did you mean to say, Monsieur?”

“Ah,” The Gentleman straightens his back a little, “Only that I intended to ask you for your name before you once more run from me, leaving me hopelessly lost as for where to seek you out.”

“It is Combeferre,” he says, with a smile.

The Gentleman nods, “In truth, Monsieur Combeferre, you nearly drove me to desperate measures. I had fully convinced myself that I would seek out every bookseller in Paris and ask if perhaps they knew the name of one large, bespectacled man that loves books to excess, as that was all the applicable knowledge I had of your person.”

There is a slight pause, a slow smile. “I am glad it did not come to that.”

“As am I,” Combeferre agrees, feeling a tad flushed at the words. “What happy coincidence that we should once more run into one another, though I hope you are not solely at the bookstore for the benefit of new acquaintances.”

"It is quite a fashionable place to do so, do you not agree? Where else should you find a friend tailored to your literary whims?"

Combeferre motions towards the books, “What is that you have picked out?”

“Ha,” The Gentleman turns the cover, “Dreadful but necessary.”

“You do not enjoy reading the law?” Combeferre wonders when he has puzzled out the title after adjusting his spectacles.

“Enjoy, no, perhaps not,” The Gentleman retorts with a grin, “Though as I study it with some interest, it is impossible that I should be rid of the labors of reading it.”

A student of the law, Combeferre thinks, with no small amount of surprise. He is so used to the stiff fellows at university that walk as though they own the world already, arrogance at home in their postures and minds, that the ease with which this man carries himself in spite of his status is extraordinary to him.

“Good heavens,” The Gentleman gasps suddenly, as he glances at his watch, “How long I must have been standing here.”

He looks up at Combeferre once more. “I’m so dreadfully sorry, but I had an appointment with a friend almost ten minutes ago, and she will certainly have my hide for it if I do not hurry.”

“Jean,” he calls out to the owner’s son, waving the odious text around, “To be put on my account, if you please.”

The boy on the cusp of being a man nods, and goes back to perusing whatever volume finds itself in his lap. Poetry, if the last few visits here have been any indication.

“Pardon,” Combeferre says softly, as The Gentleman moves to step past him. “Shall you leave without giving me your name in return?”

This stops him short, and he glances at Combeferre. “It cannot be that I forgot to introduce myself in turn, can it? Where is my brain on this day? I am Courfeyrac,” he extends a hand, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Combeferre.”

Combeferre shakes the hand, and he feels but little through the gloves they both wear, but Monsieur Courfeyrac certainly has a strong grip. Then he hurries out of the building.

(Combeferre presents Madame Clochard with texts from Voltaire that she had expressed interest in, and though she is reluctant, she eventually accepts after Combeferre assures her that he suffers no financial setbacks for it. As his father’s only living son, and a much beloved son at that, if not an only child, he does not want for anything but the desires that taint his heart so unbearably. Then Madame Clochard smiles at him, truly and widely instead of the wistful one she usually wears, and he thinks that she would make a fine wife to those looking for a wife, were there not the matter of her five children and three of her sister she is raising.)

+

**Paris, February 1827**

“Monsieur Combeferre,” Courfeyrac greets him pleasantly as he is sitting at the river studying his notes on anatomy. His professor allowed him to assist in several dissections after the first one he witnessed in December, and he is to be granted assistance in his first surgery, should the professor find his anatomical knowledge up to snuff. That is why for the past two weeks he has gone on little sleep and even less socializing. There are simply so many things to know - it is only a small thing to lose sleep in favor of gaining knowledge in turn. There is also the matter of presenting the research he has done on the Corona Mortis. He has spent hours cutting into and sewing up the arteries at such dissections. It is a complicated matter, as his professor predicted, to keep the needle steady in such a small and precise vicinity, and he begins to see the reasoning against sutures. Still, there must be a better way. It is so simple a matter, to fix a hernia. Why should it remain such a deadly procedure, in this day and age?

Madame Clochard took care to bring him food to his rooms twice a day, and he was grateful, if a bit embarrassed to be so unintentionally imposing.

“Monsieur Courfeyrac,” he smiles. To see him feels like looking at a clear sky after weeks of rain and clouds. He has never considered himself apt with poetry, he is a man of science, not of sentiment. And yet, undoubtedly there is sentiment in him at such a sight. Courfeyrac is promenading with a lady on his arm that seems to be much more interested in Courfeyrac than the scenery they are taking in. Combeferre cannot blame her.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” The lady in question teases Courfeyrac, who gives a chuckle.

“Monsieur Combeferre, this is Mademoiselle Élodie, my sister. Élodie, this is Monsieur Combeferre, a new acquaintance of mine,” Courfeyrac introduces, and Combeferre rises to kiss her hand, slightly uncertain but glad to see the smile on her face at his boldness. “Mademoiselle has come to visit me to take a break from the ancestral seat in lieu of breathing in the wasteful odors of Paris, sure to aggravate her health and the spirits of our father.”

“A new _acquaintance_ , you say?” Mademoiselle considers Combeferre, and he cannot fathom why Courfeyrac’s cheeks suddenly seem a tad pink. It may very well be the cold, but it appears so suddenly that he cannot help but find it odd. 

“An acquaintance as most men are my acquaintances, dearest sister, lest you misunderstand.”

Élodie smiles, seemingly satisfied, and turns her attentions to Combeferre once more. He gets the sense that she expects him to continue the conversation, so he does: “And how are you finding the city, therapeutic odors discounted?”

“Quite pleasing,” she says, but the way she looks at him makes Combeferre feel that there is an aspect to the conversation he is missing. “I had hoped to convince my dear brother to take me to one of his haunts, but he will not be moved.”

“Now, darling, you know our parents would have my head for it if-”

“Yes, yes, so you have said, you scoundrel,” Élodie waves a dismissive hand, “What about you, Monsieur Combeferre? Does it please you to frequent the establishments my brother writes me of clandestinely?”

“Not when I can help it,” Combeferre shakes his head, politely.

“Be serious, Monsieur,” Élodie teases, donning a haughty look, “I have heard that Parisian men altogether are cads that like nothing more than chasing every bit of skirt they see. My brother himself as the prime example of such vices, I should think.”

“Ah, then the mystery around the reason for my apparent misconduct is lifted and in turn truth is revealed, as I have only recently found myself in Paris and am neither acquainted nor partial to her customs,” Combeferre smiles. It makes Élodie laugh.

“I did not believe my brother knew men such as you,” she peers at the bench where his notes still sit, weighed down by an ink pot to prevent the wind from sweeping his work into the Seine.

“Men such as myself?” He inquires, raising an eyebrow.

“Naturally, you are his opposite,” she dares, “Handsome, sensible and scholarly? It almost seems too good a deal to be true. I’ll be sure to get the whole of it from you and see if there are in fact flaws to be discovered, if you would join us for dinner.”

It is a close thing that Combeferre does not voice indignation at the implication that Courfeyrac is not a stunning creature. There is such vivacity in him, it brings those around him alive with the same spirit. 

“Élodie,” Courfeyrac says, cautioning tone of voice.

“Ah, dear brother, you have no leg to stand on if you intend to chastise me for my impetuosity, when just upon my arrival I caught you still in bed with the most questionable-”

“Would you make me look so terrible in front of a friend I have had so little time to charm?”

Combeferre foregoes saying that he has been thoroughly charmed since Courfeyrac fell on top of him.

Élodie laughs once more, the green of her dress wonderfully bright against her brown eyes in the morning light. Combeferre can see the resemblance, he supposes, in the thick brown locks and pleasing features. They are of similar temperament, Courfeyrac and his sister, and thus the bond they share is deep. Clearly, they care for one another greatly, if he would let his little sister visit him in his bachelorhood. 

“As inappropriately forthright as my sister has been, Monsieur Combeferre, the invitation is extended on my behalf as well,” Courfeyrac tells him earnestly.

“I have some studying yet to be finished for today,” Combeferre considers, “Though I suppose I could reasonably find the time for dinner.”

(“I have been invited to dinner by a dandy, if you would believe it,” Combeferre laughs when Madame Clochard inquires as to why he will not be dining with her and Madame Michelet that night. “A dandy, you say?”

“Quite so, Madame, he wears a canary yellow coat, and a terrifyingly atrocious top hat on which he fastens a ribbon to match his waistcoat for the day.”

Madame Clochard laughs at the description. “Is he a pleasant fellow, otherwise?”

“He makes for good conversation,” Combeferre chooses to say, which is the truth, but certainly not the whole of it.)

+

It is gone five when he arrives at the address Courfeyrac gave him, making his way to the top floor of the lodgings. He knocks on the sturdy wooden door and Courfeyrac greets him with a genial handshake when he opens.

“How grand that you could make it, Monsieur Combeferre, I am sure Mademoiselle would have held me personally responsible for your absence, sure to be an indication of my questionable character,” he jokes.

“Ah, well, I am glad to have avoided you drawing her ire, Monsieur,” he nods, removing his cap and coat. Despite his expectations, borne of the way Courfeyrac carries himself, the place is rather modest in its entirety. There is a Récamière onto which Courfeyrac explains he has been relegated for the duration of his sister’s stay, as he has left the bed for her, a full bookshelf and a table and not much else, though he cannot claim to know the furnishings of the man’s bedroom, nor of the small kitchen to the side. 

It is not austere, but there is little of the splendor that his clothes would indicate. 

“Ordinarily there would be no qualms in sharing a bed, only now that she has reached a marriageable age our parents have seen fit to send with her a chaperone. You see, I am suitable enough for the day time, but they fear that at night I should transform my soul, to like nothing better than to let the whole of Paris corrupt her,” Courfeyrac waves a disgusted hand around.

The chaperone is a middle-aged, stern woman with a heavy brow and a large forehead, dressed entirely in black and with a garment fastened entirely up to her neck. They make polite introductions.

Dinner as a whole is pleasant. He is seated opposite Courfeyrac, and it all feels dreadfully formal though the small talk is not boring at all. It is clear that the chaperone does not wholly approve of Courfeyrac's esprit, but she does not intercede, merely ruffles her nose on occasion, as if mentally tallying every slight offense the man makes. These stilted manners do not come easily to him. There was little formality in the house he grew up in, though his sisters had lessons in etiquette as they grew old enough to consider prospects. His parents enjoyed open, warm relations with one another and their children, and he is grateful for it. 

It is after dinner, once Élodie has been made to retire – though not before wringing a reluctant promise from Combeferre to join Courfeyrac on a visit home in the future and earning herself chastisement from the chaperone– that he finds out the cause for this sudden increase in hauteur.

“Madame Chaperone is not very taken with me and my habits,” Courfeyrac sighs, relaxing into the seat, “She observes such rigid protocol that even my honorable mother sometimes is prone to roll her eyes – a fact she denies with a twinkle in her eyes I know to be all too indicative – though certainly she wants rigidity for her only daughter. Heaven forbid Élodie should absorb too much of me into her personality.”

“Pardon me, do you mean to insinuate that you would endorse your sister becoming a rake over your mother instilling in her the importance of virtues?”

“A rake?” Courfeyrac laughs loudly, clasping a hand over his heart in a wounded manner as they take a seat on the Récamière, “You wound me, Monsieur Combeferre. I am a gentleman and can truthfully claim never to have pursued a woman if she did not give me every indication of a wish to be pursued.”

“I do not doubt it,” Combeferre smiles. “Though you have not answered my question, Monsieur.”

“No, indeed,” muses Courfeyrac, “As it stands, my rakish ways, as you so bluntly put it, are by far not the only fault to be found with me. There is the matter of my politics.”

Combeferre thinks he knows some of Courfeyrac’s politics, the words _inherent equality_ come to mind. “I see,” he says.

“Precisely,” Courfeyrac agrees pleasantly, “So you see, it is much better if she learns nothing from me, her hero de Gouges or the British Madam Wollstonecraft in such matters, for who could ever want a wife that held her own opinions? Who should want a lady that argued for her own rights?”

“Perish the thought,” Combeferre shakes his head, amused, “What good is a wife if you cannot control her to be in harmony with your every whim? Much rather she should be a mere puppet.”

“I see we are of a mind,” Courfeyrac smiles, standing up and locating brandy.

“Have you no mind to marry one of your pursued then, Monsieur?”

“They do not wish to marry me, I do not think,” Courfeyrac muses as he pours them both a glass and hands one to Combeferre. This time, their fingers touch, skin on skin, and it is exciting. Courfeyrac has soft skin. 

“And why should they not?”

"Quite a few of them may already boast a husband, for one," Courfeyrac laughs, "And those that do not, well..."

"Yes?"

“Do you see marriageable qualities in this man?” Courfeyrac gestures towards himself, not critically, just bemused. “I certainly do not find them. No, Monsieur Combeferre, I am too passionate, too engaged in the fight for the world of tomorrow to consider a wife, and my women prefer their freedom from me. To be a mistress is to give up potential security, but it is to gain choices that a marriage renders impossible. It is a matter of what a woman prefers, and I prefer mine to prefer freedom, do you see?”

“I believe I do,” Combeferre agrees, leaning one hand on the back of the Récamière and shifting a little to be more comfortable.

“And what of your own ambitions for home and hearth?”

“I do not know if I should like to think about marriage. In abstract, I think a union between two lovers that lasts a lifetime is worthy of the highest esteem, but I have yet to find someone to persuade me into such a union.”

“Are you an Elizabeth Bennet then, that only ‘the deepest love would persuade you into matrimony’?” Courfeyrac teases.

“And you a reader of Austen? I should not have expected it,” Combeferre muses.

“Ha, but you recognized it, did you not? I do believe that makes you complicit in my guilty pleasure, and quite a skilled deflector at that,” Courfeyrac points a finger at him, eyes crinkled.

“It is as you say,” Combeferre nods, “I should not like to marry anyone I do not at least think very fondly on, I do not think I could look upon a marriage as merely a transaction.”

“And a mistress?” Courfeyrac inquires, raising an eyebrow.

“Certainly not,” Combeferre laughs, “Between running into your charming person so often and my studies, when would I possibly find the time?”

“Ha,” Courfeyrac derides, “I know medical students and many of them to be willing lovers of some girl or other. You cannot fool me with your compliments, lovely though they may be.”

“Then you have caught me out, Monsieur,” Combeferre shrugs, “I am of the sort of man that should deny himself until marriage, as is usually expected of the wife. Absurd, is it not?”

It is a feeble excuse, because he feels, oh, does he feel, the desire in his heart. Even if it ever came to actively pursuing marriage, he should wait until after the ceremony to bed the wife, but not out of any moral inclinations dictated by good Christians.

Courfeyrac is silent for a long time, observing him.

“I suppose you must find me terribly boring, now,” Combeferre looks at his hands.

“On the contrary, Monsieur Combeferre,” Courfeyrac says, voice low and so terribly earnest, “I find you to be the most wonderful man I’ve come across in years.”

+

It takes two more weeks until he is properly introduced to Enjolras, when he strolls into the Café Musain as agreed to find Courfeyrac’s table bearing not only the horrifying top hat but also the blindingly bright red coat, too brilliant for his eye.

Enjolras stands, not bothering with formality, and offers his hand only to introduce himself without preamble. Stunned, Combeferre answers his own name, and sits down to a satisfied nod and an extended hand.

Courfeyrac is more jovial around Enjolras, more prone to teasing him easily, sensing whenever an eye roll is caused by serious annoyance or simply fondness. He supposes it is because they are new acquaintances yet, that Courfeyrac does not tease him so easily, but he longs for it. It is a sharp contrast to the stiffness of dinner with his sister and the chaperone. Courfeyrac appears to him like the strange, foreign chameleon he has read about, adapting seamlessly to his environment and never giving the impression that it lacks authenticity. What is at the heart of Courfeyrac, he wonders? Where is the truth of him? He longs to find out.

Demonstrably he longs for many things, in regards to Courfeyrac.

Enjolras is a storm contained in a human being, so militantly passionate it unsettles Combeferre at first. Where Courfeyrac subdues his passions masterfully to an extent that Combeferre is never quite sure how to measure them at all, Enjolras has entirely unleashed them, cast off all chains, whether they ensnared his temper or the downtrodden of society.

“The hour is late,” Enjolras says eventually, sounding regretful, “And I have an appointment to keep, but I do hope to speak with you again, Combeferre.”

“As would I. Tonight has been…most enlightening.”

He truly means it. Beneath the anger and the outrage, there are genuine ideas there, great ideas that Combeferre too longs to turn into a reality. They agree on quite many a thing, and Combeferre has longed for much of his life to have companions to share his ideas with. 

“I am glad to hear it.” They shake hands.

“Are you to meet Grantaire again tonight?” Courfeyrac wonders, grinning widely when he sees the angry glare Enjolras bestows upon him. “Do give your sweetheart my best – and a kiss from me if you will not offer such a boon of your own volition.”

“Watch your tone, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says, and Courfeyrac has the good sense to back away from a genuinely angry rebuke.

Combeferre is almost tempted to ask, only he does not like to make a habit of gossip, and instead listens to Courfeyrac talk about his day at university. It is clear that, whomever Grantaire is, he provides some tension between Enjolras' and Courfeyrac's otherwise easy rapport. 

+

**Paris, March 1827**

"I see you have made discoveries on the nature of your hypothesis, Monsieur Combeferre?" His professor asks him when he finds him late one night, studying the cadavers with his notes. 

"I had thought - " Combeferre starts, then starts again once he has cleared his throat, "I had thought to perhaps develop a strategy that could avoid deep cuts altogether."

"How do you propose that? Certainly, your mind comes up with the strangest ideas, Monsieur Combeferre. I am quite astounded at your tenacity."

"You see, Monsieur, there is the matter of incarceration, if left untreated, but what if instead of stitching the breach, a protective layer might be added, as reinforcement? It would require fewer stitches, and the risk of breaching our hated Corona Mortis might be significantly smaller."

"We might try it on a cadaver," his professor nods. 

"Might we?"

"Certainly. And should that work, we shall try an animal out for size, before we move on to my patients. But I do believe there is some virtue to your theory. Had you thought to write on it? There are plenty of medical journals looking for contributors."

"I had not thought - " Combeferre ducks his head. "I have not yet finished my first year of University, Monsieur, surely a student should leave such matters to those more established in the field?"

"My dear boy, I've seen you correct the Encyclopédie in your spare time between classes, do not pretend to be merely another student of medicine, your modesty, though it does you credit, is ill-placed in such matters." 

His professor claps him on the shoulder, genially, then begs off with the order to finish up so that they may test his theory out on the cadavers the next morning.

+

It occurs to Combeferre one day that he spends nearly all of his free time in the company of Courfeyrac, when the man is not with one mistress or another.

(There have been instances when he has appeared at Courfeyrac's doorstep to find a lady bathing in Courfeyrac's exquisite brass tub, naked and entirely aware of the fact. Often times Courfeyrac will watch a lady bathe as they make conversation, and Combeferre cannot pretend to understand the allure. Surely, conversation unhindered by such activities would be easier? Perhaps that is the whole of it - that it is the excitement of the matter, the slightly taboo nature of it, that makes it one of Courfeyrac's favorite pastimes. One had been bold enough to suggest Combeferre might join them, though he had quickly dismissed that notion and excused himself.)

Tonight he is over for dinner again, less formal, as they sit on the Récamière, eating and debating. Courfeyrac’s cravat is undone; he remains in shirtsleeves, his waistcoat unbuttoned entirely. It is a picture of debauched beauty – so different from the formality that initially colored their conversations.

Combeferre too has loosened his cravat, though not by much, lest his thoughts drift towards further undressing. As the hour grows later the wine flows more freely and Combeferre can say with some certainty that this marks the first time he would consider himself to be inebriated beyond a reasonable amount.

Courfeyrac looks wonderful in the candlelight, his curls messy from where an enthusiastic hand pushed through them too many times in the midst of an argument. There is wine staining his lips and a droplet cascading down his chin.

He does not consider the implications of such an action before he catches the drop in its path with his thumb, feeling the smooth, clean-shaven expanse of a jaw as he does. The pad of said thumb catches at the edge of Courfeyrac’s lips, when their eyes meet.

“Ferre…” Courfeyrac seems to say, but a breath whispered into the night. He holds his eye, though the sound of his heart in his ribcage threatens to drown out any other sensation.

Everything goes quiet when Courfeyrac leans across the distance and places a soft kiss to the corner of his lips. Combeferre feels it scorch his body, burn his every cell, before he truly realizes what has happened. The wine tastes different from Courfeyrac’s lips, though perhaps that is an illusion of his desire-addled brain.

He closes his eyes and shudders, an exhale. It is divine, to have felt Courfeyrac’s lips on him, for that brief touch. And yet, when Courfeyrac’s lips find his again after a brief moment apart, it is too much, and he gently pushes him away.

“I wish you would not do that to me,” He says, quietly. It hurts him to see the horror on Courfeyrac’s face, the worry.

“I…Apologies, I misread, I thought-”

“Please, Courfeyrac, let us not speak of it,” Combeferre clears his throat, getting up. He cannot. He cannot. He cannot. If he stays now, he will not be able to leave in this life. 

“Combeferre, please, I did not intend-”

He leaves, though it hurts him terribly.

+

Courfeyrac waits for him in the kitchen the next morning, top hat clutched anxiously in his hands, unable to keep still on his feet.

“Monsieur Combeferre,” Madame Michelet calls up the stairs jovially, “Your dandy friend is here to call on you.”

To refuse to see him would arouse suspicion, he has little to study for currently. And he remembers too well the desperation in Courfeyrac’s eyes last night. There is no hanging designed for such behavior in France, not since 1792, but there is still reason for fear, and he does not want fear to linger in Courfeyrac’s eyes for even a second.

He comes down the stairs, greets Courfeyrac with a handshake that feels stiff, despite all the times they have greeted each other. Perhaps it is the return of gloves between them, when he has so often felt skin-on-skin now.

“I have come to ask a word with you,” Courfeyrac announces, stiffening his back, the formality of his conduct foreign and hurtful now, though he knows it to be born of uncertainty. Combeferre nods and gestures towards the door.

“Perhaps afterwards Monsieur would like to have a _word_ with me?” Madame Michelet teases from where she is peeling apples, while Madame Clochard makes a dismissive, annoyed noise. It is telling of Courfeyrac’s state of mind that he does not even throw her a wink. In fact he does not seem to hear her at all.

Outside, the words leave him like he has to fight to speak them: “I am so very sorry for my behavior of last night. It was fully inappropriate and I should never have attempted – Combeferre, I would be quite heartbroken, I think, to have you hate me over my abominable actions.”

“Rest assured I do not hate you, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre tells him, stopping short. “I could never hate you, for you are my dearest friend in this life.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Courfeyrac offers him a hesitant smile. It still speaks of insecurity.

“Forgive me,” Combeferre starts, “I was so certain all your dalliances were with women.”

It works to lighten the mood. Courfeyrac’s laugh is a little assured now. “Perhaps I am greedy, and cannot merely be content with the one or the other. Perhaps I must have both. I certainly have before, I do not doubt I will again.”

There precisely lies the reason for the rejected kisses. Combeferre is very certain he could not go into such a dalliance as light of heart as Courfeyrac can.

“You are not a greedy man by nature,” Combeferre dismisses, “You live quite modestly, foppish hats notwithstanding. Whatever _is_ this pattern you have pinned to it today?”

“I shall never understand this preoccupation of yours with my hat,” Courfeyrac shakes his head, laughing quietly, “I quite adore it, do you not think it ties the rest of my outfit together?”

“Without a doubt it ties the outfit into a mess.”

“I hope…” Courfeyrac begins again after a while, “I hope this need not mean that we must regress in any way. You might recall words spoken on not pursuing those who do not wish to be pursued, and I certainly mean them.”

Combeferre smiles and hopes that it is better to deny himself than to have only a small part of Courfeyrac’s love.

+

It is not better, in fact it is very much worse. Combeferre is sure he never before saw Courfeyrac with so many various girls on his knee whenever they go out. Enjolras too grows annoyed, though that is common occurrence recently. It is in keeping with the rise of frustration among Paris’ inhabitants – Enjolras is simply ahead of the curve already. Combeferre does not blame Paris for not knowing how to keep up with him, it is something even he struggles with.

“Must you really?” Enjolras growls when Courfeyrac is just about to charm a lady onto his lap for the night. He is quite reliable at it, Combeferre knows. Already the girl is eyeing him and arranging calculations in her head. There is a promise in Courfeyrac's eyes, a promise that he will never be a disappointment nor a regret, no matter how short-lived their dalliance. 

“Certainly I _must_ not, dear friend,” Courfeyrac shrugs in a genial manner, “Combeferre read me quite the interesting essay on the arguments against physical pleasure as a human need a fortnight ago, but I am indulgent in this whereas you pretend not to be.”

Enjolras glowers. “There is work to be done, discussions to be had.”

“Work you had vowed to be done with last night, and instead you turn up for dinner with your cravat tied higher than usual, but even that does not cover every mark. There is one on your neck, Enjolras, and it is very telling indeed.”

“Do not tease him, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre cautions mildly. There is no such mark on Enjolras, he does not think the man would permit it, but Enjolras’ scarlet blush confirms that there is reasonable cause to believe someone was afforded the opportunity to leave one. “There is no mark.”

“None visible to us,” Courfeyrac says, one hand stroking up and down the girl’s bodice as she has now found a seat in him. She seems to be enjoying it. She bends down to whisper something into Courfeyrac’s ear, at which he raises astounded eyebrows. Then she gets up and strides away, the flowing fabric of her dress swaying from side to side as she does. It is hypnotizing, the rhythm of the movement and the ripple it creates.

“Well then, citizens, I arm myself for battle,” Courfeyrac grins, downing his glass of wine and placing some money on the table. “I should hope that tonight you will forego your lover in favor of finishing the report, at least, instead of blaming me for the libido you no longer wish to repress.”

“That man,” Enjolras hisses to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose quite determinedly. His eyes are screwed shut and his face is red in anger or shame, he cannot quite tell. 

“He only means to rile you up,” Combeferre soothes, sipping at his wine.

“He manages to do so quite admirably,” Enjolras sighs. “It is not as he accuses, with Grantaire.”

“You need not offer me an explanation, Enjolras,” Combeferre says.

“I should like to nonetheless,” Enjolras raises an eyebrow, “You have inspired a confidence from me that few people have managed in this life, Combeferre.”

“You flatter me.”

“I never flatter,” Enjolras insists, grimly.

“Are you quite sure? That fan-maker you encountered last week…”

“Earnest admiration, hardly flattery,” Enjolras dismisses, sipping tea. “Grantaire is…Grantaire.”

“I have yet to meet the man,” Combeferre shrugs, “But Courfeyrac assures me he is quite…singular.”

Courfeyrac had talked at great length about Enjolras and Grantaire, in recent months, and the frustration their companionship has caused him. 

“Indeed.” Enjolras snorts. “Infuriating, horrible man that can do nothing but critique my hopes and point out flaws in my rhetoric all day long – it is insufferable, truly. He disrespects everything I stand for merely by existing to drink himself into an eloquent stupor day after day, though he never disrespects my person. I wish I could disdain him, and yet when I gaze upon him my heart turns soft as a child’s and I long to convince him all the more.”

“You love him, then,” Combeferre assuages, feeling the words resonate within him.

“Unfortunately,” Enjolras agrees, though he is smiling a little. Combeferre wonders whether he even notices the change in his features.

“You have known him for a long time?”

“A few years now,” Enjolras nods, “Would you believe it? We met in the carriage that brought us to Paris from the Midi. I quite fondly recall now how deeply annoyed the other passengers were with our arguments. We talked of everything that day, never arriving at a satisfactory conclusion, and so we vowed to meet again, only for the same problem to befall us again and again until I could no longer quite imagine having nothing to say to him.”

Combeferre envies him then, to be able to love so honestly. Hidden, private, yes, but unafraid.He cannot. He watches the man he thinks he might love as he disappears to have a Grisette against an alley wall. 

“I should like to meet your Grantaire,” Combeferre says, instead of voicing his thoughts.

“That can certainly be arranged,” Enjolras muses, “If you but promise me one thing.”

“Name it.”

“He is quite persuasive. Pray do not let his drunken ramblings tear you from our cause.”

“I doubt even god himself could manage that,” Combeferre chuckles, and Enjolras nods at him, face proud and content.

+

**Paris, April 1827**

Grantaire is an amiable fellow, though it becomes quickly apparent that he is also a drunkard. He is a few years older than Enjolras, who is as fresh-faced as can be in the city. And when he gazes at Enjolras, Combeferre is very certain there exists no other entity in the room for the man, though he makes a great effort to converse with Combeferre as well. The man is well-versed in many topics, and takes interest in Combeferre's continued struggle with the issue of the Corona Mortis. 

It makes envy fester in the heart of him, though he is certainly happy that his friend has found love. Their dynamic is strange, both men seem overtly antagonistic at first, but it belies a deeper attachment, a fondness, an understanding of one another few could imitate. Enjolras, in retrospect, seems incomplete without Grantaire by his side, though he is impressive enough that Combeferre had scarcely noticed it prior to tonight. 

“Discount his words, Combeferre, for you know well he does not believe in anything – he is quite incapable of it,” Enjolras rails, huffing out an outraged breath as Grantaire goes quiet.

“That is not true,” Grantaire’s voice is pained and sad. There is a certain melancholy that surrounds the man in moments like this. He is at one turn jovial and entertaining, and at another deeply thoughtful and prone to lamentations. It is an adjustment to Combeferre, but Enjolras seems well versed in him. “You know I believe in you.”

Briefly, Enjolras’ fingers caress Grantaire’s knuckles.

“And I had rather you believed in humanity.”

“And I have given you ample reason to discount humanity altogether, Oh proud Apollo.”

They both look at one another, and Combeferre cannot help but feel that both men aren’t saying everything they should like to. Understanding exists, yes, that much is evident, but there are words unsaid between them, be that out of hesitance or rejection of their necessity. It seems to him that the two men walk a tightrope, as an acrobat would, always on the cusp of plunging to depths and deaths. Yet they do not – instead they pull off magnificent feats that only make him wonder how on earth such a dynamic should be possible.

+

As he comes home that night Madame Clochard is in the kitchen, quietly weeping. She gasps and startles when Combeferre closes the door behind him.

“Monsieur Combeferre, I had not counted on your return tonight – I had supposed you might lodge with your dandy friend, so late the night has grown…”

“Whatever is the matter, Madame?” He voices his concern.

Her voice is shaky and exhausted when she speaks: “It is – Pierre, I do not know what is wrong with him, the poor darling. He has been weak and feverish all day.”

“I shall go attend him, if he is awake,” Combeferre says.

“I cannot ask you to do that, Monsieur,” Madame Clochard protests, attempting to stop him. The woman is altogether too modest for her own good at times.

“Be easy,” He tells her, “It was an offer I made, not a demand of yours, and even had it been, I should be glad to help where I can.”

He spends a while examining the five year old, and feels a pressure in his abdomen that is easily remedied.

“Thank you monsieur, the pain is gone,” whispers Pierre after he has extensively soiled the chamber pot. He staggers over to the wash basin and uses a cloth on himself, responsibly, before climbing back into bed on naked, unsteady feet.

“There,” Combeferre assures her as he washes his hands in the kitchen, where Madame Clochard had invited him for herbal tea, to see him off to bed. “Now we may both rest easy.”

Madame sets the kettle down, takes a deep breath, then says: “Monsieur Combeferre, I…”

“Yes?” He asks, concerned as she does not continue. “Is something else the matter? You need only say, I will do my best-”

“No,” She laughs, hiccuping a little, “Nothing is quite the matter, only… I don’t quite know how to thank you.”

They look at one another for a few heartbeats. “Only let me-” She says, and then abruptly crosses the room to tug him down to kiss her. She is not a tall woman, and so she is balanced precariously on her tip toes as she kisses him. His arms wrap around her more out of a need to steady her than a need to pull her closer. Her lips are chapped, worn through with worry, but it is pleasant enough.

“I do hope,” he says after she pulls away just enough to gauge his reaction, “That you did not kiss me because you thought I needed proof of your gratitude.”

Madame Clochard laughs, resting her head against his chest. The proximity is comforting, pleasant in the way they feel against each other, but it does not invoke in him the reaction a touch from Courfeyrac does. It does not set his heart beating a mile a minute, does not make him long to strip her bare.

“No, Monsieur, that is not it,” She tells him, in a whisper. “It is this: I must find a husband, almost four years widowed have left me destitute, and would have done us in much sooner had we not lodged you.”

“Madame,” Combeferre says, thoughtful, and finds that he means his next words. “I would gladly consider it, though I hesitate to think what my father might have to say…”

“Oh,” she backtracks, “No, you misunderstand. There is – a man I do mending for, his wife has passed last year and left him no children, and he has said that he will be a father to my brood. He is a good man, though rather old – and I…I think I might accept him, only…I wanted to feel what it would be like with someone I truly desired.”

“You desire me?” Combeferre wonders, awestruck, aware that he still holds her to his chest. He does not ask whether she did not desire her first husband – has learned by now that it was a marriage set up by her parents, for her to prosper in.

“You are too well-intentioned a man to see it, I suppose, but yes.”

“Are you sure I should not ask my father?” He says, though he says it lightly. He recognizes her arguments, and though if the responsibility were to fall into his hands he would consider it his duty to raise her children in the stead of the deceased father, it is not his innate inclination. Then he thinks on Enjolras, and his insistence that change is coming, be it freely given or won through blood and sacrifice.

“You are kind enough to offer in earnest, but I do not think it would make you happy, Monsieur.”

“Our conversations are intriguing and you are a wonderful woman, I do not see how you could fail to make me happy when your company already does.”

“Ah, but by the time you have matured into a man’s prime I shall be a crone, even more wrinkled and spit up,” she shakes her head, also helplessly amused now, past the melancholy that colors the room.

“Madame, there is not a wrinkle on you,” Combeferre snorts. There truly isn’t. Laughter lines around her eyes are formed a little deeply perhaps, and a worrying set to her lips on occasion, but he sees those on Grantaire in a much stronger fashion – and he certainly is not an old man. “And if there were, I should kiss them from your face,” he whispers, choosing to be bold and tipping her face up gently to kiss her forehead, then her nose, then her cheeks, and then lastly dropping a soft kiss onto her lips.

When they pull away they are both smiling.

“I fear the tea might have gone cold with our distractions,” She finally says. 

“Then we should be off to bed, should we not? We may reheat it in the morning,” Combeferre suggests, then kisses her knuckles to wish her good night.

He sleeps easy that night, though he cannot quite help the comparison of the kiss Courfeyrac gave him, so tender and hesitant, as if afraid that a too eager touch of lips might upset the moment, that it would shatter everything.

Occasionally, Combeferre deeply regrets rejecting his advance. Some nights he spends working himself up to the conclusion that to be allowed even a piece of the love Courfeyrac so freely bestows on willing partners would be satisfying, other nights he burns at the thought that nothing but having his love all for himself would prove enough.

It is a dilemma he knows not how to solve.

+

“There is war in Ottoman Algeria now, had you heard? Charles intends to take it for himself, I have been told,” Courfeyrac tells him when he meets with him for breakfast one morning in late April.

“I had not, though I am not surprised to find him greedy and willing to subject a people to his rule,” Combeferre says, closing his lecture and beholding Courfeyrac. “Something is different about you today, Courfeyrac.”

“Astute as well as handsome, as Élodie writes me ever so often, what a catch dear Combeferre is,” Courfeyrac winks as he sits down, ordering a coffee with a roguish grin thrown at the serving girl, who knows him well but has held him off thus far. One day she will smile and tug on one of his curls, the other she will haughtily raise an eyebrow at him as if to challenge him prove himself worthy of her. Courfeyrac aims to please in all interpersonal aspects, and he is quite set on charming her skirts up. “I shall not even give you a hint, for you will certainly have no sympathy left for me then.”

Combeferre narrows his eyes at Courfeyrac.

“Your hat…” He finally realizes when he cannot spot the odious thing anywhere.

“No challenge for you, I see,” Courfeyrac laughs, helping himself to a piece of the pastry Combeferre had gotten for himself. “It seems that a street urchin has divested me of it, and the silk tied around it.”

Combeferre cannot help but grin; he does not mourn the hat.

“Yes, yes,” Courfeyrac waves his hand, playing at hurt, “You hated it, but I truly adored that hat. I thought it made me look rather fetching.”

“Ah, but is it not less the apparel and more the man who dons said apparel?” Combeferre wonders, sipping his coffee.

“Flatterer.”

“I merely aim to raise your spirits once more.”

“I shall not be happy until I procure another hat.”

“Mercy,” Combeferre says, drily.

“No, no,” Courfeyrac retorts, determined, “I shall have a hat made that towers even more magnificently, perhaps one in a brighter color than black. Patterned, perhaps? Do you think there might be a Scottish ancestor in my family tree I could beg for a proper tartan?”

Now Combeferre is laughing, and he hardly knows how to stop.

“Ah, you mock me now, but you shall see how the women will swoon over my good sense of clothing.”

+

**Paris, May 1827**

He asks Courfeyrac once, about Enjolras and Grantaire.

“Ah, you see, my dear Combeferre, I had thought on that for a long time as well, but I do believe it is a poet friend of mine who gave me the satisfactory answer,” he says.

“You mean the young Prouvaire?”

They had been briefly introduced. Courfeyrac had stumbled upon him in the midst of composing verses one day at the bookstore and they had been fast friends after that. He is younger than Enjolras, even, and Combeferre does not know much of him yet, but he seemed a fellow both sensible and sensitive in his conduct and emotions, altogether a pleasing combination.

“Just so,” Courfeyrac nods, “He says that as humans we are drawn to what we lack, you see? Just as Grantaire once rambled on about how the gods separated us into two out of fear for our power, so does Prouvaire believe that the right people might complement each other so utterly as to form near perfection, should that be attainable and not divine privilege after all. In short we are all frogs, looking constantly at the sky and watching the birds fly overhead.”

“And what does Enjolras lack that Grantaire possesses?”

“I truly do not know much of Grantaire’s mind that he does not share with the entire world, given the right size of bottle, though I am certain there is much depth to him yet to be discovered, but I suspect Enjolras finds in him a comfort, and a way of temperance. I do not know if you had noticed, but our mutual friend can be quite _intense_.”

“Oh, indeed?” Combeferre quirks an amused eyebrow.

“I am aware his moderate rhetoric might not give it away, and why should anyone interpret a call to arms into ‘cutting the fat ones down to size’, but yes, it is in fact so that Enjolras often loses himself in indignation or outbursts of the most passionate speeches. Grantaire is not so, he rambles, his words spool out slowly, and I do believe he acts as an anchor, he gives Enjolras sufficient grounds to retain a somewhat clear head as he offers himself as opposition. It allows Enjolras not to blindly fling himself at the walls of injustice put up all around us. A way to develop strategy, if you will. And sometimes, there is simply an inexplicable sympathy we feel for another human being and their plight, do you not agree?”

“As for what Grantaire lacks,” Courfeyrac continues, thoughtful, “Conviction, primarily, and so he seeks it in Enjolras, along with redemption for his perceived wrongs.”

“And you?”

“What of myself?”

“What am I to consider you lacking in, judging you by your lovers?”

Courfeyrac laughs, rubbing his hands together before taking Combeferre’s arm. “Height, perhaps? I am rather short in stature and favor a tall woman, though I begin to make up for it in width around my midriff, so perhaps I am not lacking after all.”

+

**De Courfeyrac Estate, France, July 1827**

It is fascinating to Combeferre how Courfeyrac reverts to a proportionately stiffer comportment the closer the carriage takes them to his parents. Much more fascinating that he should get to watch it happen, that Courfeyrac should smile fondly at him as Combeferre rests a hand on his knee to stop him from tapping the floor of the carriage into pieces. 

They pass a pleasant month with Élodie, and Combeferre attends his first ball, then his second, third and fourth in quick succession, after Courfeyrac spends long, sweltering afternoons teaching him the basic steps to the most popular dances until they are bathed in sweat and have need to cool off. 

(He remembers his mother well that summer, how she loved to dance with his father when she was still alive, though it was no stiff minuet. Instead she would laugh and throw her head back as his father led them in a two-step around their house kitchen – a dance he picked up in the erstwhile colonies, where he met Combeferre’s mother before he spirited her away to France and freedom.)

He writes to his sister Adelaide often that summer, tells her a great deal about Courfeyrac and about Élodie too, what a charming young lady she is, perhaps going a bit far, because by his next letter his sister is quite convinced that he must be in love with Mademoiselle. Combeferre does not correct her, but he wonders if there are others who might view their companionship as untoward. Élodie is a wonderful woman, a credit to the human race, in her opinions and her drive to raid her father's library until she has devoured every single volume. He values that in his friends, that they share the desire for self-improvement as well as the improvement of the plight of the human race. 

Courfeyrac's parents, Monsieur et Madame de Courfeyrac, pass a comment or two about his strange, foreign face, but he does not think it is intentionally meant to wound. Still, he is grateful to receive a nudge from Courfeyrac's foot beneath the table, a comfort. 

"They are shocked, as it is," Courfeyrac explains, "As I have never invited a friend from Paris here. They know Enjolras, by virtue of family connection, and so he does not truly count, but they merely know you from my sparse letters to them and my frequent letters to Élodie. It seems she has gone on about you at length, and so they are quite convinced we have hatched an elaborate plot to have you elope with her. What other reason could I possibly have to bring a handsome bachelor home?"

"I see," Combeferre nods, flustered. 

"She is a charming girl, my sister," Courfeyrac says, finally, heavy with meaning. 

"Oh," Combeferre realizes, furrowing his brow, "Is it...is that the case then? Has she truly gone on about me at such length?" 

"In fact she has gone on at such a length that her words caused my father to extend the invitation to you from his own hand."

Combeferre had been surprised to receive such a letter. 

"Forgive me, I had no idea. I am not well-versed in such matters. I sometimes find myself unable to comprehend matters of etiquette-"

"Be easy, my friend," Courfeyrac smiles, "That they have invited you here does your character some credit, and they have elected to ask me my opinion on the matter. I do not think they dislike you."

"But, surely, you cannot want your sister to be-"

"My sister has her own mind in such matters," Courfeyrac says, looking thoughtful as he overlooks the lake that borders their estate. To inherit this one day seems dreadful burden, Combeferre thinks, to be responsible for so many people, so much land. "And though I am quite vexed that she has not told me of her plans to seduce you into marriage with literary and medical discussions and a few dances, I cannot say I fault her for caring for you."

"I do not care for her," Combeferre blurts out, then hastens to add: "That is to say, I do. I care for her as I might care for Enjolras, or another friend, that is all."

"Not as you care for me?" Courfeyrac's lips twist into a wry smile as they come to a stop on the middle of a bridge. It is still early enough that the sun has not risen entirely, and Combeferre feels as though time might have slowed to a stop entirely when Courfeyrac looks at him thus. 

"I do not think I care for any friend the way I care for you," Combeferre says, honestly. "You are...you are quite dear to me, Courfeyrac."

"I am glad," he says, reaching out to squeeze Combeferre's shoulder quickly. "I hold you nearest to my heart, dear friend."

If ever there was a moment to make a confession, he supposes now would be the time, as they regard one another once more. Combeferre does not think he has shared such looks with anyone else - but so many of them with Courfeyrac in the course of their friendship. Courfeyrac, however, excuses himself, clears his throat and leaves him standing on the bridge, alone.

+

“I do believe I see why you dropped your title,” Combeferre says as they hang their feet in the pond, a bottle of wine between them and their socks rolled off, late one night. There are stars bright in the sky, out in the country, and they remind Combeferre of home. They have been chez Courfeyrac for nigh three weeks now and Combeferre finds the endless dinners to be exhaustive. Now that he knows to look for it, he is uncomfortably aware that Courfeyrac's father is sizing him up as a potential husband for his only daughter, should he ask. He will not, but they do not know that. Nor does he think they would believe him, were he to make such a claim. 

“You did not believe me when I said I simply found it to be more fashionable?” Courfeyrac grins.

“Ah, no,” Combeferre shakes his head, “As I know that you resent living in such splendor when you see the poverty that affects the rest of the country.”

“You have me quite nobly pictured, in your opinions,” Courfeyrac teases, but he is smiling genuinely.

“Well, I did and continue to call you a rake.”

“Fiend.”

+

**Paris, October 1827**

He has known Courfeyrac a year now, and he is no longer in the habit of denying that he remains fully enamored with him.

Tonight he has followed Courfeyrac to one of Paris’ Quais, where workers meet to drink and drown out their frustrations over the state of Charles X and his greedy, overindulgent monarchy, no better than the last King, his brother, or the emperor, or the one they beheaded, if you would listen to the eldest among them rasp about. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, Grantaire had said once, unusually succinct, to the sound of Enjolras making soft, agreeing noises. It had been a rare, sober night for him, after they'd heard of massacres in Algeria in the name of France. There is no way for men to be truly free while there exists a monarchy, Courfeyrac had whispered that same night, and scared Combeferre with the intensity in his eyes, more St. Just than dear friend. 

It is not as though he has doubted Courfeyrac, only it is so easy to forget how much Courfeyrac ponders grievances and injustices done in the name of the King, that it overwhelms Combeferre when he voices such thoughts. He imagines Courfeyrac shall waive all of his fees for the poor, when he eventually is made a lawyer. He can imagine well, Courfeyrac, spewing fire and fury from the stand on behalf of those that cannot fend for themselves. It is a fitting thing. He imagines Courfeyrac, debating a new constitution in a Republic of their making, and longs to join the debate beside him. He imagines them together. He imagines a great many things, at night. 

Combeferre empathizes with the workers, as they break their backs daily in the quest to earn bread for families – perhaps he would not squander it on drink in the evening, but he cannot deny a man the brief easing of his sorrows. To each his own. There is a sickness that takes hold of men in hopelessness, he sees it in Grantaire. When their spirit is broken along with their body, there is little that remains to drag them back from their melancholy. A great deal of France's people is broken in some manner or other.

Currently, Courfeyrac stands, up on the table after an elegant leap, giving an impassioned speech that earns him many an agreement from the workers gathered around.

He glows, Combeferre knows no other way to describe it. Often, he has considered that Courfeyrac hides much of himself in his ordinary life, beneath a pleasant and amiable exterior, and tonight he is proven right. Every part of Courfeyrac is alive with the spirit of the revolution, the ardent longing for a better world, there is fire in him and his belief is so evident that Combeferre hardly knows what to do in the light of such unexpectedly tumultuous passion.

Inevitably it leads his head down a road he wishes he could abstain from.

(It is no longer a debate in his head whether he should have rejected Courfeyrac, he knows now he should not have. He did not want to at the time, only logic demanded such a course in the interest of avoiding unnecessary pain, at the time. He has since revised his logic on the matter. And to have loved wholeheartedly, even if Courfeyrac returned only a little of it, would surely be better than to have denied any love at all the growth it craved? Just as well, he has made his bed and must lie in it, for Courfeyrac has never once insinuated he should be amenable to a second attempt at increased intimacy.)

There is shouting in the distance, guards screaming ‘You there, this gathering is not in accordance with the law!’

Courfeyrac bows to his enraptured audience, profusely and with a charming shout of " _Vive la République, citoyens_!", then jumps off the table. Combeferre takes his hand and they run through the dimly-lit streets of Paris until they have lost their tails, leaning against a wall and breathing heavily, exuberant with the feeling of change that is slowly beginning to take root in Paris, not just in their own breasts.

“You were magnificent,” Combeferre tells him, earnestly. Courfeyrac looks proud to hear it, if the grin on him is any indication. 

“I see how it is, you and your tone of endless surprise, did you have me pegged as a bore who could not properly rouse a crowd? A man of so little charisma?”

“Truly, no,” Combeferre assures him, “But I will grant that I have never seen you stirred by such passions.”

“Ah, my friend, that is where you are wrong. Very often I am stirred by passions much grander than tonight. It is – it is a thrill, is it not? To know your words have an impact, to do so despite the fear that they may catch and jail you, or worse still? There is little they could not do to us, were they to catch us red-handed in the midst of sowing the seeds of insurrection.”

“You were afraid?” Combeferre wonders, concerned, touching Courfeyrac’s brow gently. He had not been, personally. He had looked on Courfeyrac and quite forgotten to be afraid.

“Terrified,” Courfeyrac looks at him, “But I stand by the theory that fear serves to make men smarter. I knew when to run, as did you. We need not let fear paralyze us – we may easily use it to fight back. I do believe you are the one who taught me that principle.”

Combeferre is in love with Courfeyrac, desperately, ardently, and he does not know what to do.

+

**Paris, December 1827**

Combeferre witnesses the wedding of Madame Clochard to her new, elderly gentleman of a husband with mixed emotions. There is no doubt in his head that the man is a kind-hearted, spirited man, but there also remains no doubt that it is not the life Madame Clochard would have wished for herself, when she dreamed of her future as a little girl. 

How cruel, he thinks, that this country offers Madame no better options; that she should be content to just be wed to someone that she doesn’t find entirely unpleasant, and that the option of bachelorhood for her is almost impossible if she did not chose to spend it on her back for a variety of men.

He discusses this with Enjolras and Courfeyrac when next they meet, to find that Enjolras cares about this plight as much as he cares for any other injustice, though he begs off quickly to pay a visit to Grantaire, who has been ill these past few days, leaving Combeferre sitting across from Courfeyrac, coffees steaming into the colder air and spreading a deliciously rejuvenating scent.

There is a girl that has been eyeing Courfeyrac all night, and he has looked upon her a few times. Combeferre is familiar with such proceedings, and though they each lodge in his chest he cannot find it in himself to be angry at either Courfeyrac or his willing bedmates. After a while she comes over, hips moving to deliberately stir up imaginations, to refill their cups.

As it is she bends close to Courfeyrac to whisper in his ear. Combeferre expects the raised eyebrows that always follow, as though Courfeyrac could still manage to be surprised at such propositions. He does not expect a kind smile and a polite declination, along with: “Perhaps some other time, darling girl.”

“I have never known you to pass up such an offer.” Combeferre is astounded enough to comment, when they have spent a minute or two staring at their respective coffees, saying nothing.

“We were conversing, were we not? I do not recall being done with you just yet.”

+

It is shortly after Christmas, when Courfeyrac has returned from a visit to the family estate once more, and Combeferre has returned from visiting his father, that they meet up again to share the bottle of brandy Courfeyrac’s father bestowed as a present.

“There was talk of marriage,” Courfeyrac reveals with a put-upon sigh, “Not in concrete detail – I am still young enough for that to be put off, but they made their wishes abundantly clear. They inquired after you as well, abandoning all subtlety on the matter, as they have received offers for Élodie now, it seems.”

“And what did you elect to answer?”

“That I should at least like to know the girl and her mind before I wed the poor wretch,” Courfeyrac smiles, leaning back against the Récamière and sighing, “I had thought to answer that I should prefer to be wedded to a husband, only I thought that surely they would then forbid Élodie from seeing me at all – three faults and I would surely be cast out.”

“Is there one you would like to wed?” Combeferre asks, later in the night, when the alcohol has flooded his brain and he finds that he desperately needs to know all of Courfeyrac’s heart.

“Certainly,” Courfeyrac answers, without having to ponder it. “You are asking if there is a man whom I would happily spend my life with, and I suspect you know well the truth of my words.”

There is a beat of silence, too long for Combeferre to misunderstand. He remembers the moment on the bridge, where he had thought to make himself clear in regards to matters of the heart, only Courfeyrac had excused himself before he had even finished the thought. 

“You cannot mean me,” he says, awed and full of wonder as he beholds the man next to him.

“Can I not?” Courfeyrac wonders, staring intently past Combeferre at his shelves, as if he were trying to get the measure of them. “Should you not like to have this man by your side until death does us part?”

“Perhaps I would,” Combeferre says, chest tight and aching with the desire to pull Courfeyrac into him.

“A ha,” Courfeyrac smiles triumphantly, “Then you need only promise me that you will not leave my side and I shall never feel trepidation at the mention of matrimony again.”

“I swear it,” Combeferre says, reaching for Courfeyrac’s hand. “You will not find me from your side in this life.”

There is a new quality to the smile Courfeyrac sports now, as though the words both delighted and pained him, and Combeferre knows the sentiment all too well.

+

**Paris, January 1828**

There are days on which Combeferre curses Courfeyrac’s honor and his insistence to keep his word. It has been a while since Combeferre resolved to have what he may have of him, only he fears now that Courfeyrac does not notice the change in him – or, if he does, that he elects to ignore the advances made until Combeferre makes things abundantly clear.

Courfeyrac never again tries to give him a kiss, and though he is warm with him and their connection strong, it is never inappropriately so. Sufficient to drive a man mad, Combeferre thinks to himself as he lies awake at night. He has tried to signal that his interest has changed, that he should very much be agreeable to pulling Courfeyrac against his chest and ravishing him shortly thereafter. 

And yet, it seems he does not make himself clear enough. Weeks pass where subtle attempts at seduction fail and crumble. He has had no practice in such matters, after all. He maintains eye contact longer than he should when the topic turns risqué as it inevitably does with Grantaire and Courfeyrac in a room, he lets his fingers linger on Courfeyrac when he passes him a pen or paper or cup, he presses his knee against Courfeyrac’s beneath the table – it earns him but a warm smile. Once he had dared to brush a lock of hair behind Courfeyrac’s ear for him, and they had both been caught breathless by the moment, though Courfeyrac recovered far too quickly.

(It brings doubt into Combeferre’s heart, that Courfeyrac may have lost interest in him or that the kiss, so long ago now, might have merely been passing, fleeting lust, slaked by any other willing partner.)

In the end he decides that either he shall spend the rest of his days wondering whether his touches and attempts simply go unnoticed, or he may very well put the entirety of his feelings on the line and hope to see the heart of Courfeyrac in return.

Logic demands the second option to be the most sensible course, as it is one that offers clarity, a definite outcome, be that rejection or rejoice, as opposed to the indefinite insecurity of the first option.

There really is no choice but to acquiesce to logic. 

+

**Paris, February 1828**

The opportunity is afforded earlier than originally anticipated, when a debate with Courfeyrac looms late into the evening, both men heated and locked into their positions.

“I am happy to offer you my book on the matter. I do believe you’ll find it quite enlightening.”

“And whatever shall Madame your Landlady say when she finds I have accompanied you to your lodgings at such an hour?” Courfeyrac grins into his cup – it is a common joke among them now, the reason they always end up in Courfeyrac’s rooms. What should Madame Clochard think? She has long believed Courfeyrac to be a terrible influence, though she, as many other women, is not immune to his charming words and pretty smiles. Women yield to Courfeyrac, one way or another, but he has never met a woman that did not admire the man in some way. 

“I expect she shall never know, as she is visiting the waters in Bad Ems with her new husband and children,” Combeferre says, “From what I gather, Madame Michelet has elected to join them also.”

Courfeyrac’s brow knits together as they look upon one another. Combeferre is very aware that his voice sounds close to issuing a challenge, and Courfeyrac seems to be considering the implications of his words. He is not much for subtlety tonight, his nerves are bundled too tightly, a current beneath his skin that threatens to burn him. 

“Very well then,” he says, “Pray let us make for your rooms.”

It is not more than a stone’s throw from the Café they met in tonight, and so they pass the snowy streets quickly, Courfeyrac chattering happily about why no book shall convince him to give up the point he has just advocated for nigh two hours.

As they climb the stairs to his room nervousness takes hold of Combeferre’s heart, one that he cannot shake. Should he ruin their friendship, were he to embrace the man now? Might he be making a mistake inviting him here? The excuse is flimsy – he has the book, but they are set to meet tomorrow and he could have easily brought it by then. He suspects Courfeyrac knows as much.

Is the man merely waiting for Combeferre to make a fool of himself? No, it cannot be. Courfeyrac is too genuine, too good, for such guile. The fear will not leave Combeferre, but he remembers what Courfeyrac said on it once, that it is possible to be brave in the face of fear. That Combeferre had taught him so. Should he not be able to do this now? Should his strength fail him at this moment, when he needs it most? Preposterous.

And so, as Courfeyrac enters behind him, he makes a decision. The man is in the process of removing his hat when Combeferre pushes him against the door, sealing his lips to Courfeyrac with a helpless noise. He knocks the air out of Courfeyrac, but his hands come up to hold onto Combeferre’s coat immediately, and he pulls them closer together so that Combeferre finds himself flattened against the man.

“It appears we have trampled your hat,” Combeferre says when he pauses to give the man a chance to regain his breath.

“I never cared for it,” Courfeyrac claims hastily, eyes wide and lips parted, voice soft, “Only kiss me again, if you would.”

Combeferre manages a quick smile before the redness of Courfeyrac’s lips lulls him into a haze he has little hope of escaping – nor does he much want to. His hands leave where they had framed Courfeyrac’s face, spreading out, exploring the expanse of his shoulders, arms, and chest.

“Oh,” Courfeyrac makes a pleased little sound when Combeferre begins to rid him of his cravat so that he may kiss his pulse there, and it jumps beneath his lips, quickening. A hand comes up to guide his head, buried in his hair. “Are we to bed then?”

“If you so desire,” Combeferre nods, feeling keenly how his heart jumps in his chest at the notion.

“You know well I have desired you for quite some time,” Courfeyrac shakes his head as if to clear his mind. They undress together, until Courfeyrac stands before him bare, and he before Courfeyrac. 

"Oh, my darling," Combeferre says, voice shaky. Courfeyrac steps close once more, lifting Combeferre's palm to kiss it, gently and reverently. 

"Only kiss me, my dearest, and see us to bed."

+

It is past morning when he wakes up to the harsh light of the midday sun directly in his eyes. A glance at the watch he placed on his nightstand confirms that they are a way past the eleventh hour. And on top of him, Courfeyrac rests, in deep repose, breathing evenly. Hot breath tickles Combeferre’s throat with every exhale, and soon enough it is not only his mind that has been roused by the sleeping beauty in his bed.

He is almost hesitant to wake the man, for while they surely consummated their passions last night, it remains to be seen what they shall do next.

"Are you so concerned that I should abscond in the night that you would clutch me to your chest like a prized possession?" Courfeyrac wonders, eyes remaining closed. He feels the movement of Courfeyrac's lips against his chest, remembers how they moved last night, where they moved last night, where he bears traces of Courfeyrac's presence on his body. 

"And if I am?"

"Allow me to assure you that I do not intend to leave," Courfeyrac murmurs, leaning up to kiss him once more, soft, hesitant, as though Combeferre were likely to break. 

"Leave myself or leave the bed?"

"Neither, I think," Courfeyrac laughs, eyes still closed. "I do believe that the world shall have to wait a deal until it may reclaim this man." 

Combeferre sits upright now, and Courfeyrac finally blinks, slightly concerned. "My dear are you quite alright?"

"I am well," Combeferre says, though he feels hesitation in his heart as well. He caresses Courfeyrac's cheek and watches with reverence as the man leans into the touch, sighing contentedly. "Are you not off to some mistress or other, tonight?"

Courfeyrac studies him intently for a while. 

"I do not think I shall, tonight," he says. 

The man is on to him, he thinks. Courfeyrac is well aware what concerns Combeferre is voicing. He wants Combeferre to be precise. He does not think that conversation is one he is ready for today. 

How do you explain to a man that you want him all to yourself?

"You are a tease, my darling, you truly are," he says instead, with a genuine smile. 

"A tease?" Courfeyrac feigns offense, even as he shifts in Combeferre's lap to demonstrate precisely how well he may tease. 

"Well," Courfeyrac finally relents, laughing. "I suppose it is better than rake."

They kiss. 

Combeferre feels in that moment as though they might have forever firmly in their grasp.

**Author's Note:**

> Some Historical Notes:  
> \- You might notice that the King in this isn't Louis-Philippe, because he only came into power after the second 'major' French Revolution of 1830, of which the June Rebellion was more an aftershock. The King after Napoleon's fall was first Louis XVII and then Charles X, both brothers of Louis XVI, the one they beheaded during the big Revolution from 1789-1794  
> \- The fighting mentioned in Algeria  
> -Niecephore Niepce is credited as the inventor of photography, and the first photograph is estimated to have been taken in 1827, in Paris.  
> -Invasion of Spain 1823 was a bid by Louis XVII to get a Bourbon back on the throne there, and the army was called "One Hundred Thousand Sons of St. Louis" although they were only about 60.000 The whole thing had only about 300 casualties on the French side.  
> -Corona Mortis is a slightly macabre term for an anastomosis (read: a connection of two blood vessels) around the pelvic area, which is easily nicked during a hernia operation (a Hernia, for those that don't know, is when your intestines sort of find weak spots in your muscles and form a sack of skin and intestine. It's dangerous because it can cut off blood flow ("incarceration") to that area and lead to necrotic flesh that can eventually kill. So, you operate. These days its pretty easy and standard, but in ye olde days, precisely because of the corona mortis (+ infection) it was super deadly. Combeferre, in this fic, is in the middle of discovering the more modern techniques used to treat such problems. 
> 
> -Courfeyrac in the brick is definitely the more radical of the two, in my opinion, as seen by the scene in which he burns the royal charter. Combeferre is willing to compromise to obtain a more virtuous society, Courfeyrac and Enjolras less so. 
> 
> I would love feedback on this, or answer any questions you might have if I left out something important, historically. Let me know if there are other things you'd like to see in canon-era!


End file.
